


21

by fuckener



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckener/pseuds/fuckener
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam keeps going back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	21

This is the last time.

Kurt smells the same sweet, clean way he always does. His apartment looks even smaller around him. He’s warm under Sam’s hands, the firm muscles in his back moving into his palm when he hugs him, almost at tightly as he used to.

Bad idea, Sam thinks, but he breathes in Kurt’s fruity shampoo, the nice detergent on his clothes, the moisturiser seeping into his skin; takes it all in and can’t help himself.

“It’s good to see you,” Kurt tells him with enthusiasm. Sam hates that NYADA’s made him so good at lying because he can’t tell anymore. Can’t tell why Kurt puts a heavy inch between their bodies when they hug, or why he smiles so much - too much, for him.

Part of Sam insists that these are good things, things he used to need. Little things to barrier them. He used to want so badly that he’d stop wanting Kurt to like him back.

“You too,” Sam says, burying as closely into Kurt’s neck as he lets him go. He means it, and they both know, and nothing Sam feels will ever be safe from Kurt knowing.

-

Sam wonders how many times he’s been inside of Kurt. There’s no way he’ll ever get close to the right number; a lot of it’s gone, forcefully forgotten, and when he tries to picture their sixteen year old bodies rattling the metal frame of his bunk bed against his bedroom wall, he ends up remembering, at least, that he always turned the lights off; that there was nothing to see so far under the covers. 

Now, they’re on Kurt’s bed, grey New York light pouring through the giant windows on the walls. It makes Kurt look sickly, even when he’s so flushed. Sam cups a hand against his cheek to shadow it and see all the redness, all the freckles, all the tiny bits he’s missed enough for his toes to curl at the sight.

Kurt is underneath him in nothing but an unbuttoned, wrinkling shirt. He gasps at his own fingers inside of himself, and Sam watches that, too, the very same fascination, having missed it the same way.

Comfortingly, and because he can, he rubs Kurt’s thigh, feeling it tremble at his third finger’s slide. He touches the hand Kurt’s fucking himself on and shivers, other hand moving to his own cock, bulging wetly out of his boxers. He squeezes slightly, sighs.

The rhythmic slide of Kurt’s hand stops, three of his fingers slowly pulling out of his hole, lube still clinging to the tips before dripping onto his pink, spread skin. He gasps again, hips arching, searching.

His eyes shut tightly, teeth clamping down on his lip. “Sam,” he huffs out with effort, and Sam clumsily tugs off his own underwear, body naked and so hot inside he’s already sweating.

Slow, he thinks, feeding his dick into Kurt, listening to his soft noises, watching his flushed grey skin, willing the it to last. To never end.

It always feels like it did the first time (from what Sam can remember of it). Overwhelming, so good, so close. He groans when he sees the last inch of him squeeze into Kurt’s ass, then falls, lightheaded with the pleasure, his head neatly tucking beneath Kurt’s jaw.

The sound of Kurt’s heartbeat is thick in his ears, rapid and frantic enough to match his own. Synchronised, maybe. Sam waits another moment, revelling in the twitching, excited muscles around his dick and the way Kurt’s hand gently rakes through his hair. Then he starts, shallow thrusts at first, reacquainting himself with Kurt’s body, the strange, incredible feeling of being inside of him. He cries out it’s so much. 

Kurt fucks himself back onto him, back arching when Sam’s mouth sucks a hasty bruise into his neck. He licks the salty red skin there, drags his hands along Kurt’s spread, tight asscheeks. Something is missing, but he never knows what, and he doesn’t bother thinking about it too much when this is as close to perfect as he thinks things get.

Head stretched back, Kurt moans. “More,” he insists in a low voice that vibrates in his chest, against Sam’s skin. His arms stretch up, hands clinging onto the headboard, and Sam pushes his spread legs back and starts to fuck in deep, harder, the old mattress squeaking under the pressure of them both and the headboard clicking against the wall. He’s glad the sun’s started coming out.

He pants, balls tightening, something building up hot and desperate in his stomach.”God, Kurt. Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come in me,” Kurt murmurs underneath him, roughly. He pulls on the hair at the back of Sam’s head and then, louder, “Come, Sam.”

With a groan, Sam snaps his hips, skin burning where Kurt touches him: hands dragging through Sam’s sweaty hair, across his slick back, one snaking back between them to his own cock. Sam starts, reaching down himself instead to fumblingly touch Kurt’s cock. He strokes, and Kurt jerks his hips reflexively, whimpers.

He pushes Sam’s hand away again and fists himself, and Sam can’t be confused for long because Kurt clenches around him when he comes, tight, and makes a breathy noise that has Sam shooting off inside of him, the orgasm thick, wracking.

One of Kurt’s legs bend to bring him closer, then hang over his back again, limply. “Mmmm,” he hums, shut-eyed. 

Sam kisses from his cheek to his jaw to the slight dimple in his chin, lingering there as the post-orgasm warmth drains away, and Kurt hums again, softly. His hand is still in Sam’s hair, slowly stroking it back. 

Sam closes his eyes. He never wants it to end.

-

This is the first time.

They’re in Sam’s dark room, under his Batman sheets. Sam has his mouth on Kurt after weeks of trying not to touch him, not there, not like this, but it’s all okay because Kurt promises he loves him back, and the way he kissed Sam when he said it made him know it was the truth.

-

Kurt is worried about Sam’s weight. He never mentions it, but he cooks more food than either of them can eat, and when Sam says as much he just shrugs and wipes a little mashed potato from his cheek.

“We need to…” he starts, clicking his fingers as he looks for the word. He lands on it, giving Sam an effectively distracting look over his shoulder as he finishes, drawling, “Replenish.”

After the first time in the bedroom, Sam backed him up against the tiles of the tiny shower, the two of them fitting together any way the space would let them. Kurt insisted they clean every bit of Ohio off of his body and scrubbed his scalp a little too hard, lathered him in his expensive soap until the hot water ran out; Sam kissed his wet hair apologetically and let him. Then he’d pulled Kurt onto his lap on the couch, Kurt’s skin damp and warm and bare in his hands, and rolled on a third condom. 

After that, Kurt had pulled clean boxers on, still shaky-breathed and sporting messy hair, and insisted on making a big meal while Sam lay across the couch, not even bothering with clothes, and started to miss him again.

Sam ends up eating until he can’t anymore because it makes Kurt happy. Kurt turns the TV to SG-1 while they eat and leaves it on until the end even though he visibly has no idea what’s happening. But Sam thinks he has a kind of secondhand enjoyment for stuff like this now, because back home he watches Chicago when it’s on even though everyone’s so mean in it, and he checks the thrift store window Kurt used to shop in just to guess what he might like.

It’s just background noise, anyway. Kurt puts their plates down on his little coffee-table and drops his head onto Sam’s shoulder when he sits back up, hesitatingly, like he thinks Sam might move away - Sam tries not to be tense under him, but it’s difficult when he’s trying to keep so still, too, and not have Kurt move back again. They just haven’t done stuff like this in a while and it makes Sam’s hands sweat.

He puts a careful arm around Kurt’s shoulders. Kurt just lies on him for a while, hair tickling the side of Sam’s face. His warm skin is pressed up to Sam’s side and it feels good, closer than they’ve been in maybe years. 

Something is still not okay, but Sam pushes it away as best he can and drops his head a little so his lips can brush Kurt’s forehead. 

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” Kurt says, softly. 

Sam swallows and feels Kurt’s against the side of his ribcage, thumping at the same frantic pace. “Yeah,” he agrees, feeling caught red-handed, ashamed.

-

They’ve gotten quieter and quieter around each other since they were eighteen, and Kurt left. Sam knows about his roommate, Rachel, some of his New York friends like Santana and Artie, and even though he wants them to talk like they used to and he has a million things he’s been storing up day-by-day to say to him, it still gets quieter, because he’s afraid of what Kurt might tell him if he wanted to.

Sometimes he feels bad for never asking about his friends, or New York, but Kurt hates knowing about Sam’s friends and Ohio just as much. Sometimes Sam feels bad for not wanting Kurt to date boys here, or kiss boys, or be with them like they are, the same way he knows Kurt doesn’t want him to be with girls anymore.

“You’re okay?” Kurt asks him instead, generally enough for Sam to filter out what he thinks Kurt won’t want to hear. He feels stupid for enjoying the sincere look in Kurt’s eyes so much when he asks.

He grins. Answers with, “Great,” but Kurt knows, anyway.

-

If Sam were sixteen and Kurt was lying on him like this, and they’d spent the day babysitting his siblings and touching hands when they weren’t looking, he’d hook an arm through the bend of Kurt’s legs and carry him upstairs to the bottom bed of his bunk, the one his parent’s referred to as just Kurt’s because they thought he was the only one sleeping in there. Kurt would give him a funny smile on the whole way up and a handjob under the covers and then not let on to anybody they knew that this was something they did a lot (at all) because Sam didn’t feel ready.

But Sam’s twenty-one and Kurt’s twenty-two, and Sam once told him he didn’t know if he’d ever feel ready so Kurt stopped touching him like that and didn’t like it when Sam did, either. He’d said it was unfair, and then they’d fucked on his squeaky New York bed and Sam had missed him more than ever.

Sam smells his hair and keeps still. Kurt’s heart keeps on racing against him, keeps pressing back into Sam’s kisses on his forehead. It’s good. Sam doesn’t want to waste it again.

Then Kurt’s cell phone makes a noise from the kitchen, and the sound of the city and the television flood back into Sam’s ears and Kurt moves away again after a second’s pause, standing up with his face looking red, angling away from Sam.

His feet pad softly against the floor as he goes. Sam can hear it when they stop, and he wonders who texts Kurt near midnight on Friday nights. He feels bad for it, and sickly, and suddenly remembers why Kurt stopped kissing him on the lips.

He thinks Kurt looks like he feels guilty when he comes back, like he’d be doing anything wrong by getting a message from some boy, and he feels bad for that, too. He feels bad for leaning his head against Kurt’s stomach, sucking him through his boxers like a bad apology, and feels bad for the sorry sounding noise Kurt makes from it. He’s getting desperate.

When he goes to slide Kurt’s underwear down Kurt’s hands are on either side of his jaw, pulling him up to stand. He gives Sam a sad look, then leans up to give him a kiss that’s too dry and too light and makes Sam feel like crying.

He walks Sam into the bedroom and onto his bed, and Sam lets himself fall against it, distracted with watching him.

“Please,” he says, because Kurt always knows what he needs.

Kurt slides off his underwear again, cock bobbing out, and Sam’s blood starts to thrum inside of him, loudly. Kurt crawls over him and stops to kiss Sam deeply and let out a sigh against his lips that sounds like it’s been waiting to escape him for too long. His body angles away when he reaches towards the bedside table, chest hovering above Sam’s face, and Sam grips his waist and licks at him on instinct, tongue wetly grazing a nipple.

Kurt’s breath catches. He moves back again, a condom wrapper between his teeth and lube in one hand, face burying into Sam’s neck. Their dicks slide together when he lowers his hips another inch, thrusting, and Sam’s hands squeeze at his back.

“I really -” he tries, arching up against him again, “I need you.”

Nodding into his throat, Kurt’s hands slide low to push his legs apart and then push them up, bent on either side of them. He kisses Sam’s mouth hard and insistent, and muffles the way Sam groans at the feel of his slick finger pushing slowly inside of him. Kurt’s fingered him before, years ago, but nothing more than that. Sam’s fingers feel too different when he tries to pretend, alone in Ohio, but it’s still good. Not as good.

“I need more,” he insists, even though it hurts a little. Kurt hesitatingly slides second finger inside, and then Sam feels the wet heat of him mouth drag over his dick slowly to take his mind off the ache inside him - something he’s missed it so much he thinks he could already come. “Kurt, please.”

Kurt huffs, breath hot against Sam’s erection. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He pushes another one in, fucks them faster into Sam’s hole with his mouth still working at his twitching cock for a moment. Sam has to tug at his hair and try to pull him off because he needs this to last.

This is the first time, he thinks, sitting up to kiss Kurt and fumblingly help him roll a condom on. It sounds like a heavy thing to say in his mind, and he kisses Kurt deeper because he’s suddenly a little scared and Kurt kisses back, reassuringly, because he knows.

He waits for Sam to relax, as long as he needs. But the way Sam needs him right now has his ankles pushing into the dimples of Kurt’s back, and slowly, obligingly, Kurt pushes inside of him. Sam can feel him pulsing, how big he is, how hot. He squeezes at his own cock and urges himself not to come yet.

Shallowly, Kurt rocks his hips, and Sam rocks back like a reflex. It feels closer than they’ve ever, ever been before, Sam thinks, and he pulls Kurt close to him for another kiss.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads against him, and he means it.


End file.
